“Your sole focus is the boat.” Her gaze sweeps us like she’s conducting a threat assessment. “We have one shot at this donation goal.”
Half the team is already standing straighter. Myself included.
“If we fail, we’ll all be hand-writing apology letters to every one of those sea lions.”
She points to the base of the cliffs, where the ship has dropped anchor. And above us—
A colony of sea lions.
Not a few. Hundreds.
Layered over the rock shelves like sun-drunk royalty, bodies piled on bodies, slick backs glistening, flippers draped wherever they fit. The rock face drops straight into the water. No beach, no buffer, only jagged stone plunging into the murky, shifting surface we’re floating on.
We’re essentially camping out in their living room.
ARF-ARF-BRRAAAF! GRRRR-OOOONK! ORRRRP! ORRRRP!
Their barks sound like heckling. Echoing off the cliffs, bouncing down onto the deck. Tourists line the path up top, leaning over railings with their phones out.
The sea lions couldn’t care less.
Ivy paces in front of the crew, tablet in both hands. She’s not just leading the meeting…
She’s dominating it.
And Christ.
Those pants.
High-waisted navy, molded to the same curves I spent the night learning by touch. The drag of her inner thigh against my hand, pulling her down onto me while she forgot how to breathe. The slick heat of her against my fingers when I found exactly the right place and she finally stopped pretending she didn’t want it.
My body more than remembers. It’s cataloging it in agonizing detail.
And that white button-down?Fuck me.It pulls with every breath she takes, straining over the swell of her breasts. My hands are twitching because I know the weight of them. The way they filled my palms like they were made for me.
I’m crouched at the outer edge of the group, my camera rig wedged between my knees, threading the battery cable on autopilot. Meanwhile, every nerve I have is screaming to cross this deck and drag her back into my arms.
But this is the Ivy who doesn’t back down. The Ivy who doesn’t stop until she wins. Gone is the Ivy from eight hours ago, all red lace and trembling skin, eyes dark with the promise of letting me ruin her all over again.
My grip tightens on the camera rig, remembering the way she sounds when she climaxes.
RRRRIIIIPPPP.
The Velcro strap tears loose. Ivy shoots me an icy glare from across the deck. Her eyes dismiss me like I’m nothing but a distraction.
I should be double-checking the cable and transmitter on Dare4Change’s shiny new streaming rig. This isn’t just another shot. It’stheshot. My shot.
My job is to film these sea lions up close today. Show the world those cute whiskers and make them fall in love with the cause. Then, I hit them with this decaying ship, with its rusted edges and fraying ropes, and the audience will flood us with donations.
This is more than a livestream. It’s the reason this boat gets fixed and the reason these sea lions get another chance when danger inevitably hits.
If I nail this, if I make the internetfeel it?That promotion is mine before the stream ends.
But right now? My gaze is glued to the pulse at the base of Ivy’s throat, thrumming like a damn drumbeat. I wonder if I’m the only one who notices, or if I’m just desperately hoping I haven’t already ruined my chance.
“Miss Ellison.” Orson’s hand shoots up. “You mentioned writing letters to the sea lions, but these mammals lack the neocortical development necessary for literacy, or, rather, any form of written communication.”
“She knows they can’t read, Echols!” Sienna shouts from the starboard rail, testing the tension on the rescue harness. “Let the woman work.”
